Jurassic Park Lost Memoirs
by segisaurus
Summary: The following accounts cover several events, which have been deemed restricted information by International Technologies Incorporated, covering the time span of 1978 to 1993, and help explain the situation leading up to the InGen incident on Isla Nublar.
1. Introduction

INTRODUCTION

Mankind has always obsessed over control. Many go their entire lives in pursuit of it, civilisations are built on it, and laws exhibit the attainment of it. One might say that the desire for control is deeply imbedded within our psyche; a part of human nature. Because it is our ability to imagine a world which does not exist, and may only ever exist in our own minds, which gives us the potential to have control within our grasp. It is our imagination which sets us apart. This is the only thing which raises us above the rest of the animal kingdom. As, of course, our bodies are frail and defenceless in comparison to the vast harshness of the animal kingdom.

Some would have themselves believe that with control comes power, and that with it they have taken a step towards the divine. It is only in the moment on freshly endowed control that you can see man's true desire to play God, and how poorly we live up to it.

It turns out that an individual can rarely be trusted with, nor can they handle more power than the collective. A single person will quickly stray from morality and even their very nature when confronted with a sudden superiority over their peers. Only when control is dispersed evenly over the collective society can power be properly regulated and used to positive ends. This is why secrets often flail and crumble, why forbidden acts have far larger repercussions that logic would indicate, and why hopeless endeavours are only conducted outside the realms of law and general approval. An example of which would be democracy, where each individual has an equal say in how the civilisation operates. It is true that in time a government can be bought, overrun and corrupted by the underworld of society. But in a dictatorship the single individual will find that they are ill equipped for such a gift, and will corrupt themselves far more quickly.

These ghosts in the human psyche may be remnants from our tribal ancestry in Africa. This is perhaps driven by territoriality, or an example of the necessity of a group to work together. Wherever this behaviour comes from, it remains that in the here and now; humans continue to lust for power. The idea of controlling nature has existed for thousands of years.

Ancient gods were granted power over the elements in many faiths and cultures. This, consciously or subconsciously, allowed the worshippers to project their human likeness onto these powerful figures, to allow themselves to believe that, in part, they could harness the power of the natural world.

To this day there are very few who would deny themselves the power to change the world around them to however they see fit. Mankind as a whole has been changing the world to suit its own needs since it first evolved, by cutting down the Earth's forest, and causing mass extinctions of animals which were deemed undesirable or dangerous. But it is only within the last century that the ability to change the world at a basic, fundamental level has been seen on the horizon. Genetic technology is, quite literally, the most powerful force that the world has ever seen; to be able to change the building blocks of the natural world is as close as one could ever get to God.

The first example of genetic engineering was displayed in simple projects such as tampering with the genetic code in order to make small changes to several species of animal, such as making trees closer to quadrilateral forms in order to make lumbering timber easier, or to give game animals more vibrant skin tones to make them easier to see. These tests however were often expensive, largely unsuccessful and resulted in the bankruptcy of several of the earliest biological technology start up companies.

After some time geneticists gained understanding of the makeup of the genetic code, and compiled increasing knowledge about how to engineer more complex abnormalities. However, most of these experiments were conducted in secret, in obscure countries, away from the view of the public. In previous divisions of science there had been a general positive attitude towards other departments, and other scientists. A steady flow of exchanging information had run through the scientific community in order to achieve large ventures. But the genetic research saw a sudden increase in secretive projects; companies were often found scurrying from the view of the press in order to conduct their experiments.

But it was only a matter of time before the next step was made. The question was if it would be done with the approval of the collective, or whether it would be done in secret. In hindsight it is painfully obvious that the latter was far more likely.

It has been known to the majority of society for several hundred years that in evolutionary terms the vast amounts of life forms are now extinct. Almost 99.9% of the species which ever evolved have now died out, an extraordinary figure by anybody's reckoning. The droves of animals from the bygone eras offered a potential gold mine of genetic material. For anybody who considered it, it became almost immediately clear that the secret did not lie in the present. It lay in the past.

It was then that scientists set about attempting to engineer contemporary species to take on the appearance of extinct animals. The most notable of which would be tampering with DNA of several bird species, in order to give them longer tails or a lack of feathers. However, it was clear to most that it was a fool's errand.

To put it another way, it was comparable to attempting to engineer a lion to take on the appearance of a giraffe. You could give it a longer neck and make it larger, but for all intensive purposes it would always be a lion.

In the late 1970's there were rumours of the first considerations of research being done on extinct animals. Yet this was very limited. As, naturally, for all intensive purposes it could not be done. Genetic material is almost entirely absent in extinct animals. The fossilized remains did bare fragmented pieces of the DNA, but there was nowhere near the required quantity to use in any practical applications. It soon became apparent that using fossils was inefficient, and a dead end as far as scientific progress was concerned. Soon after this the world was changed when a new biotech company was established in the early 1980's, named International Genetics Incorporated.

The capitalist, John Alfred Hammond, produced a miraculous revelation on the subject of Biological Technologies concerning the engineering of extinct animals. In 1982 I was employed by the company after I graduated from university. John Hammond revealed his adventurous endeavour to the small group of assorted employees of the company. As surprising as it had seemed at first, there had never been any denying that it was a stroke of genius; to recreate the past instead of attempting to copy it.

It turned out that it was easier than I would have imagined for Hammond to procure investors for such a prospect. It was soon after I was convinced of the brilliance of the idea, and of the proposed project as a whole.

We had dreamed of creating the most awesome sight that the world had ever seen.

And we succeeded.


	2. Chapter 1: Golden Bloodlines

**CHAPTER 1 - GOLDEN BLOODLINES**

John always did enjoy his little presentations.

People had always called him a showman; he had an innate talent for selling wild ideas to anybody who sat in front of him. It was that childish enthusiasm that caught potential investors, his little shuffling feet and his wild gesticulations. The sparkle in his eyes was unmistakeable, and there was never a bored tone carried within his voice. For those who had known him since his early years when he travelled to England from his home country of Scotland, his attitude was commonplace.

Even during the days of the park he'd set up a little speech for himself, for every conference, for every meeting. Not that anybody complained; it was always amusing to watch the elderly man work himself into such an excited state. It'd relieve the stress of any situation to have him around.

After the incident he changed. He was never the same, the childishness somewhat dimmed. I suppose you could say that he finally grew up. Not that you couldn't see the dormant twinkle in his eye from time to time.

I'll never forget the first time he approached me; I was quite young at the time, freshly graduated and relatively clueless on what I intended on doing with my life. I had received an invitation to a job proposition over the telephone from a very nice woman. I was surprised to hear that my name was known to anybody, but I went along nonetheless. Hammond had greeted me politely and led my into a dim room, the only light emanating from an overhead projector in the centre of the room. He had wasted no time. He dived straight into his idea of delving into the past. It was elegant in its simplicity; the fact that DNA could have survived buried within the residue of ancient tree sap was groundbreaking. I agreed, of course.

But he never shared with anybody where he got his idea.

_Kyle Sanders, 1993_

**John Alfred Hammond**

_**February 1**__**st**__**, 1978**_

_**Williams Road, Salinas, California, United States of America**_

John Hammond ambled along the sidewalk as he exited the concrete, bunker like building behind him. The orange glow of the halogen strip lights in the reception lit his way, and his expensive white shoes clicked on the ground as he walked. With every odd step there was an additional _click_ as his brown, ornately carved walking stick made contact with the paving stones.

He had just left another failed proposition; the business of biotechnology was not treating him well. He was currently attempting to gain investors to fund the research into transferring certain proteins from certain species of amphibian into other life forms. It was now quite well documented that some amphibians such as frogs could allow themselves to become frozen completely, and then thawed out, without harm. A protein within their bloodstreams acted like antifreeze, which prevented ice crystals from forming within the cells. This was very promising to the prospect of the progression of cryogenics.

Hammond had expected to have the investors falling over themselves. But unfortunately for him, the early research which he had intended to use as proof hadn't shown the positive results that he had been hoping for.

Sixty two years old, his face was lightly creased, much less so than the average man of even forty. His childish personality carried over somewhat onto his features; his short stature and the quick movements of his legs certainly entailed a certain spark of youth which had never left him.

The glass of his spectacles caught the light of a nearby lamppost for an instant, and the lenses became momentarily opaque. It was at this moment that the back door of a nearby Mercedes popped open, and a dark figure rose out onto the sidewalk in front of Hammond.

Hammond paused for a moment to observe this person, resting his weight on his walking stick. The figure moved into the light, and a very wealthy looking man was revealed, dressed in a tailored business suit. He stood well over six feet tall, and towered over Hammond.

"Mr. Hammond," said the man in a deep, powerful voice.

"Yes," said Hammond brightly, unperturbed by the man's appearance. He extended his hand to the man, angling his arm forty five degrees higher than horizontal to make up for the height difference.

The man shook hands briefly, and then put his hands into his pockets.

"My name is Jake Donnagon," he said.

"The CEO of GeneTech?" Hammond asked, frowning, the smile disappearing from his face.

GeneTech was one of the most successful, and one of the first biotechnology companies, which had centred their products potential candidate treatments for several afflictions which included Leukaemia and Epilepsy. It was rumoured that they were now delving into cloning technology, using the DNA from several endangered species to increase the populations across the globe.

"I was," said Donnagon, "until tonight."

"I'm sorry?" said Hammond.

Donnagon inhaled deeply, rubbing his forehead with a large palm. "The company received a penalty fine of twenty million dollars this morning. I've been removed from my position and fired."

"What happened?"

"One of our research stations in Mombasa suffered a security breach. There was some sort of explosion, and the city ran some risk of being exposed to by-product fumes. Not that the international press cared, but the Kenyan government weren't happy about it, despite it not being our fault."

"A security breach?"

"Somebody broke into the labs, and tried to make off with our research material."

Hammond stroked his beard for a moment, and then glanced at the Mercedes parked next to them, the engine humming. He noticed that the windows and windshield of the vehicle were black tinted to prevent him from seeing in.

"I am sorry to hear Mr. Donnagon. But why come to me about it so late in the evening?"

Donnagon leaned in closer to Hammond.

"We can't prove it, but we know that BioSyn was involved."

"BioSyn?" asked Hammond.

"A new company; turns out they can't do their own research, they just steal from everybody else. Some guy named Dodgson has been hanging around the GeneTech labs all over the world for months."

"What research are we talking about?"

"What makes you think I'd tell you?"

"You're here, in the middle of the night speaking to a man that you barely know, my dear boy. You came to divulge something with me, so please continue."

Donnagon looked at him for a moment, and then gave the smallest of chuckles.

"Cloning," he said.

"Why would they go through all of that trouble to get cloning data? It's readily available to most start-up companies."

"That's because this cloning technology is unique. Have you ever wondered what it would be like to bring an extinct animal back to life?"


	3. Chapter 2: Helping Hand

**CHAPTER 2 – HELPING HAND**

The first call came at 2pm on the 23rd of August, 1984. I remember it even now, because it marked the last time I had assured undisturbed sleep for well over a year and a half. Some junior assistant began rambling and stuttering, obviously under pressure. He could hear the scratchy voice of his supervisor in the background, his voice high pitched with rage. A company called InGen out of Palto Alto was having trouble with a museum display on the behavioural tendencies of Hadrosaur dinosaurs. Before I had a chance to approve, deny, anything at all, the kid began dutifully and mechanically reading off a number of subject fields. I didn't know who they thought they were, or more importantly, who had given them my number. But it was clear that they were having a lot of trouble. Not that I gave a shit at two o'clock in the morning. Any museum display could wait until morning. But the more I tried to explain, the more demanding the guy got. His voice conveyed hesitance, but at the same time arrogance and a self-assured quality, as if he didn't have to show me the courteous attitude that one does when calling a professional for support. The mental image my mind conjured up was of some mid-twenties new age nerd, the type who had three pens neatly lined up in the breast pocket of his shirt and his head up his ass.

It wasn't until he mentioned payment that I really started to listen to what he was saying, instead of wondering when it would be most tactful to put the phone down. The kid mentioned a healthy number that'd easily carry my research into the next summer. It was a rare opportunity, and I reluctantly agreed after another agonizing ten minutes. I regretted it afterwards, of course. Never before nor since have I been sought after so avidly. The calls came day and night, rain or shine. Sometimes they caught me after lectures, even in the supermarket. But after six months, and a lot of time spent in the office at the typewriter, shuffling through papers and research notes, I sent off my report, in full, titled 'Juvenile Hyperspace'.

_Alan Grant, 1990_

**Alan Grant**

**March 17****th****, 1985**

_**Badlands, Montana, United States**_

"That's the last of them, Dr. Grant," said the young volunteer, putting a large green box in the back of the flatbed truck with a clatter, dusting off his hands.

Alan Grant swung down from the cab, wiping his brow with his hand, and walking around to the back, grabbing a large rolled up blue tarp along the way. Unrolling it in his hands, he smiled to the volunteer, and threw the tarp over the top of the flatbed, and began tying it down. The young volunteer dashed around to the other side of the truck, assisting him. Grant was taking his weekly trip to the state university. This time he had also been stuck with the responsibility of taking in the repository of smaller bone specimens which had built up after two of the camp's vehicles had broken down.

"How long will you be?" the volunteer said brightly, the top of his head just visible above the vehicle, his hair waving gently in the wind.

Grant was something of a father figure in the camp, as many of the volunteers were kids who helped out over the summers. He loved kids; his love for teaching them had long made him a softer man than many of the other professors of Palaeontology.

"Not long James," he said back, his gravelly voice barely audible above a howl of wind which suddenly blasted past them. Normally people considered wind a gentle reprieve in hot environments, but here it was simply irksome. The sun attacked the ground with a ferocity which most people shied away from, and it was almost always over a hundred degrees. Far too hot for some. But not Grant; he liked it out here. Not for what it was now, but for what it had once been.

He finished tying it off, and jumped back into the cab, and started the engine with a rumble.

Sticking his hand out of the window, he waved goodbye as he stepped on the accelerator, kicking up a cloud of dust behind him. He roared out from underneath the covered canopy running alongside the expedition trailer, and rushed out down the road, through the camp. Volunteers in red shirts were hauling massive whitewashed structures across the ragged landscape, weaving in and out of a grouping of Sioux tepees which had been erected. The whitewashed shapes were in fact bones which had been covered in Plaster-of-Paris, to keep them safe whilst they were transported.

This year's turnout had been good; several large adult Hadrosaurs and an infant, which particularly interested Grant. It had contributed several helpful features to the report which lay on the passenger seat next to him. He accelerated out into the desert.

He passed through a door into the local diner in town. He loved it in here; great coffee. A record played soft music through the old rusted speakers, and his feet crunched on the spindles of the welcome mat beneath his feet. He took one look around at the dim interior, scanning the few occupied booths which lay beneath large, slowly spinning fans, until his eyes rested on a lone man. All that was visible was the back of his head and his shoulders, but he could see that he was dressed in an expensive suit, and his hair was cut short, neat.

Grant walked over to the booth, and slipped into the seat opposite him, and dropped the large stack of bound papers onto the desk with a slap. The man was in his early forties, and sported a receding hairline and rounded spectacles.

"Dr. Grant," the man said, extending his hand.

Grant shook his hand briefly, observing the man. In his business suit, and accompanying leather briefcase which lay on the table next to him, he looked distinctly out of place in the local diner next to Grant, who was dressed in his customary cowboy hat and khaki's.

"Nice suit," Grant said, grinning slyly.

"Yes well," said the man, taking off his glasses and wiping them with the rim of his sleeve, slowly, observing Grant, "I've heard your tradition is to break tradition." He popped his glasses back on and reached over, taking the bundle of papers, and flicked through it in one fluid motion, not really looking at the contents. Grant guessed that he was simply checking that the papers weren't blank. Considering the recent scuffle of dates and 'emergency' phone calls, it was a pretty poor confirmation check. But it didn't matter to him.

"What have we got here?" the man said, casting the papers aside. "Full content."

"Everything I have on the behavioural tendencies of juvenile dinosaurs, most notably the Hadrosaurs. You've got most of it on record already, because apparently it was urgently needed so much that you had to call me up during the night on several occasions. But I have some extra notes which I've included as well. A lot of it isn't much more than speculation, but I'm confident that it'll work great for your display."

"Display?" said the man absently, waving for the waitress, not paying attention.

"Yes," said Grant, frowning, "the museum display. Isn't that what this is for?"

"Oh," the man turned back, and smiled blandly, "of course."

The waitress came over, a pen and notepad in her hands. She was very attractive in her high heels and unbuttoned shirt. Grant ordered a mug of coffee, and the man did the same, clearing his throat. As she scuttled off, the man cleared his throat once more, and began speaking, his eyes still on the retreating waitress.

"So, Dr. Grant, we have social groupings, parental tendencies..."

"Yes, everything. Spatial recommendations, likely diets, suitable habitats, everything you'd need for an exhibit."

At the word 'exhibit', the man's face creased into a smile, and any suspicious quality that he had about him disappeared, and he took the coffee from the waitress with a polite 'thank you dear'. Grant caught the waitress raising one eyebrow as she turned away from him, and he suppressed a laugh. He crossed his left leg over his right, resting the ankle on his knee, and knelt back. "So, about my payment."

The man simply reached into a pocket inside his jacket, and pulled out a cheque, putting it on the table and sliding it over.

Grant picked it up and took one look at it, and then stuffed it into his pocket, smiling to himself.

The man stood up, not even looking at his coffee, and shook Grant's hand one last time. "Dr. Grant," he said courteously, and then turned away, walking out into the harsh sunlight, slipping on a pair of designer sunglasses.

A sudden exit; Grant was a little taken aback, but at least now he could get back to work without this hanging over him.

Well, Grant thought as he took a sip of coffee, after all that, it better be one hell of an exhibit.


	4. Chapter 3: Conference Man

**CHAPTER 3 – CONFERENCE MAN**

Malcolm's a menace. He always was, and as far as I can tell he always will be. One of those self-obsessed mathematicians, his pessimism was pretty much ever-present. Uncontrollable this, unreliable that. God, I don't know what his problem was. He always seemed so assured that he could use numbers to solve things—everything, that faced him in real life. Personally, I just don't see it. There's only so much you can do with math, and then you have to actually go out and get your hands dirty. All this extensive number crunching and jargon is just one of those things that are happening to the world; it's all gone soft. Everybody can sit around and intellectualize, and never actually lift a finger, and nobody bats an eyelid. The days of the men of action are over.

Despite all of this, Malcolm was pushing it in the terms of weird shit. A chaotician, he called himself. Whenever Malcolm talked my head hurt, but the rundown of his field was 'shit happens' as far as I could tell. Every time somebody proposed a business opportunity (there were some fantastic ideas going around in that company), he'd just smile to himself and go about telling us all about how we were wrong to try and control anything about the animals, or the island, even our own money, for Christ sake!

But still, John liked to keep him around. Even though nobody seemed to agree with him, John felt that there was some meaning to his ravings, and even made him a consultant to the company, inviting him to participate in the board meetings and everything.

If Hammond hadn't been in charge for so long, he'd have been long gone.

Peter Thomas, 1993

**Ian Malcolm**

**September 22****nd****, 1989**

_**InGen Headquarters Building, New York City, United States of America**_

The conference room was large and expensive looking. The entire exterior wall of the room was made of glass, revealing the darkening city of New York outside, the dark shapes of the buildings silhouetted against the sky, which was beginning to turn a beautiful mixture of pink, blue and orange, the clouds taking on a denser appearance. The air conditioner clicked softly, the water cooler bubbled in the corner of the room. The walls were painted a uniform beige colour, and to account for the lack of paint several vibrant plant pots were positioned at equal intervals around each wall. In the centre of the room was a long, solid oak conference table surrounded by leather chairs. Each of the chairs was filled by a middle-aged man dressed in an expensive black suit, with the exception of the slightly larger chair at the head of the table. This chair was filled by John Hammond, who looked at the other board members of InGen with a smile on his face. They had just begun the annual board meeting, and he was proud to be sitting where he was; they had just had a great year.

"Gentlemen, we have successfully kept on schedule, and now have our first round dozen group of animals on-site at our Site A Isla Nublar complex," he said smoothly, smiling at them all.

Everybody nodded to him courteously, a few of them clapping their hands together lightly for a few times. Encouraged, Hammond continued his little pre-prepared speech to his investors.

"Our systems manager, Mr. Arnold is confident that all security systems will be fully operational by—"

_Ahem._

A cough floated through the room, barely audible. And yet, Hammond paused, and turned to a small black box positioned on the table next to him. It was a phone speaker system, and they were on the line to one of their consultants.

Ian Malcolm's voice drawled across the line, his voice slightly scratchy.

"As much as I have to apologize for not being able to join you all today," one of the men across from Hammond shifted slightly in his chair, coughing to hide a noise of disapproval, "I'm afraid I still have to cross you on this one, John. As I've told you time and time again, your security systems in this case are inappropriate."

One of the board members, who simply couldn't contain himself, burst out, "Mr. Hammond, I really don't think this..._consultant_, is a necessary presence at these meetings."

John simply smiled, and raised one of his withered hands slightly, and made a small waving gesture, silently shushing him. "I understand your point, Mr. Abernathy, but I really would like it if we listened to Dr. Malcolm's views on this matter. Please continue Ian."

"Well, all I'm saying is what I've said the time before that, and the time before that. You think that you can just grab some animals that have never before been studied whatsoever, and throw them in an isolated, artificial environment, and then expect to have total control over them."

"We do have control over them," another man said, his bald head gleaming in the dying light. "They're just animals, for god's sake."

"Thinking like that is what gets people into trouble. They're unpredictable, and you know it."

Abernathy leaned forwards. "Dr. Malcolm, you do not even understand the full extent of our project. You are not a researcher; you are not even fully informed. How do you think that you can make accurate predictions on such matters?"

There was a brief pause.

"I'm not sure what you are referring to. But, as you know, I'm just a consultant, and I'm giving my opinion. You cannot create an animal and not expect it to act like one. If I were you I would improve contingency plans, increase security, and plan for some form of breakout, especially if the animals are large, intelligent, or dangerous."

There was a silence in the room for a moment, and then Hammond spoke quietly.

"Thank you, Ian, we will take it under advisement," he said.

Malcolm's quiet laugh floated over the phone line. "I'm sure you will," he said. "And now if you'll excuse me, I have to be going," and with a small click the scratchy sound stopped, and the line went dead.

Everybody simply stared at the phone for several moments, many of the board members with ugly looks on their faces. Each and every person in the room had a unanimous unspoken agreement that Malcolm was the most annoying person that they had ever encountered. Not just because he spouted jargon like a river, not just because he crossed them wherever they turned.

It was because he was _always _right.


	5. Chapter 4: Stranger In a Strange Land

**CHAPTER 4 – STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND**

Jurassic Park was the largest potential goldmine of knowledge that had ever existed, especially for me. For a veterinarian, there was nowhere else in the world or in history where behaviour and anatomy of animals which had long been extinct could be studied to such an extent. For somebody like me, it's very difficult to get your name in the books. Everything major, with any real importance had been mapped, studied and published over a hundred years ago. It's getting increasingly difficult to find anything new to study and to make yourself known, because it had all been done.

Well, almost everything.

As much as bones could tell you – which was a surprising amount, considering muscle connections, weight stresses, diet, speed etc – there was no way to know about their intimate social processes, their cognitive processes, their living, mortal behaviour. For all intensive purposes, it was gone, and would always be gone. How could a giant lizard's behaviour have affected the Earth's timeline in such a way in which it could be accurately and easily measured by an ape-like creature staring a rock, a hundred and fifty million years into the future?

Obviously, it was foolish. Which was a handicap for the scientific community, seeing as almost every animal which had ever lived was dead and gone. We only have the behaviour of 0.01% of all the animals of the planet's history to study. What could be represented by such lost behaviour? Well, Jurassic Park was the only opportunity in history to 'rescue' and liberate some of it.

The time that I spent there was the most fascinating time of my life. I was shocked by the extent of social activity which the dinosaur showed; everybody had always assumed that they had been solitary, in conformation with the stereotypical image of the reptilian solidarity. All museum displays showed the same swamp scene mural painted on the wall: the lone Triceratops standing in front of the rearing great Tyrannosaurus Rex, with a couple of giant Sauropods silhouetted in the background of a heavily clouded sky. But in fact I found that almost every one of the species presented to me in the park was highly sociable; I used to sit in his car and look out at the huge herds of dinosaur wheeling and running across wide open fields at sunset. There was nothing more serene and peaceful.

But my greatest discovery, by far, was their anatomy. Of everything, the hardest thing to study had always been blood, and tissues. Without studying a living specimen, there was no way to know things such as skin tones, vocalizations, blood types and viruses – and the list went on. Whether or not it had been an error made by Wu and his team or not, it became immediately clear that the dinosaurs had one thing in common; nucleated red blood cells. This phenomenon is usually found only in birds – which are now suspected to be the only living descendants of the dinosaurs. However, dinosaurs were descended from swaggering, lumbering lizard-like creatures which were far more ancient than themselves, who were closely related to modern reptiles, which retain the un-nucleated red blood cells. This means that there must have been some transitional period between the un-nucleated cells, and the nucleated cells. It seems that it had happened very early indeed, because all of the dinosaurs that were introduced into the park had them.

My research was going to be groundbreaking when the park went public; I'd have my name down in history as the first professional to study living, breathing dinosaurs. As part of my contract I was allowed to present anything which I discovered as my own work, which I found fantastic. I guess all InGen wanted was the money. After my first three years at the park I had three books planned, and enough research papers to fill a dump truck.

_Jerry Harding, 1995_

**Jerry Harding**

**October 3****rd,**** 1990**

_**Ridge Road, Tyrannosaur Paddock, Isla Nublar**_

Jerry accelerated, and the Jeep Wrangler's tires screeched as he rounded the corner, two hundred feet above the valley floor. A plume of dust was blown up behind him, and a few pebbles were sent scattering down into the cliff-side. The ridge road was cut into the mountain, and sharp cliffs lay below him, as well as above him, the mountain rising another five hundred feet above him on the right side.

Below him he could see the whole park extended away from him to the south. Most of what he could see was endless, unbroken greenery; a carpet of jungle which covered the majority of the island. However, at several intervals the canopy of the jungle was broken in long, thin lines which were barely visible to the average person. But Jerry was out here damn near every day, and he knew the exact layout of the park. The breaks in the jungle were the security perimeters of each paddock; twenty-five foot high chain link electrified fencing, thirty foot wide concrete moats, a dozen miles of tarmac roads and a two mile long man-made river, which extended from a lagoon positioned near the centre of the island.

The road began to gently slope downwards, towards the valley floor. He felt his stomach rise upwards, and he felt an off sensation in his abdomen as he soared down the slope into the darkness which lay underneath the jungle canopy. The suspension squealed as the road levelled out, and his body rose upwards until his seatbelt pulled at his clavicle, tethering him to his seat.

He hit a button on the door next to him, and the driver door window rolled down with a _click_. The jungle sounds outside filtered in, filling his ears. Cicadas, frogs and primates leaping around in the trees, mixed in with the odd, ethereal cries which floated through the trees. His air conditioned comfort was distorted by the hot air which blew in through the open window, but was quickly replaced by the cooling effect of the wind.

The road below him was smooth tarmac; this road had only been completed two months before by the construction crews, and it would eventually make up part of the tour road where the cars would drive around the paddocks in their luxury cruisers. Beside him, on one side was a ten foot high cyclone fence, which had signs which read 'Caution; electricity' at each concrete based section. At intervals two lights, one red and one blue, were positioned at the top of each vertical fence section, slowly alternating between on and off.

Up ahead, at the side of the road was a large wooden sign, painted white with blue labels positioned along its vertical length.

**RIDGE ROAD INTERSECTION**

_Maintenance Road; J-E_

_Ridge Road; South-East_

_Lagoon; South-West_

Harding touched the brakes, and the Wrangler skidded in the gravel, as the double fork in the road appeared in front of him, three separate roads leading off into the jungle in different directions. Up ahead, at the side of the road, he could see a large flatbed truck, the warning lights flashing. Several large workmen were standing around the back of the truck, waving and hollering to each other. Strapped to the back of the vehicle was a slumped greenish/brown mass, which slowly rose and fell every few seconds. He was looking at a medium sized dinosaur's long, curved back.

Jerry applied the brakes, and pulled to a stop, staring through his windshield at the men as they worked. Reaching down, he flicked on his radio with a burst of static, and unclipped the mouthpiece from the dashboard. He changed his channel to seven, and pressed the transmit button.

"Unit three, this is Harding, come in, over," he said calmly, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Ahead of him he saw one of them men's head pop up, alert. He then dashed around the side of the vehicle, towards the cab, disappearing inside. A moment later there was a hiss of static, and then a heavy Spanish accent.

"Yes, Dr. Harding, sir," the voice said.

"Hey, Rodriguez," said Harding, "what you got there?"

The man's head popped out of the cab, and looked this way and that, finally spotting him moments later and giving him a cheerful wave. "Hypsy, sir. Muldoon wants her moved from confinement to the park setting with the others while her medication takes effect. Something about orders from up top; they need all animals integrated into the park setting ASAP."

"He said that?"

"Yes, sir," Rodriguez said slowly, as if unsure.

Harding paused for a moment; he hadn't heard from Muldoon about that. The Hypsilophodonts had been having skin problems over the last few months, and Harding had been treating this one for scratch wounds over the weekend. Not that it was a big deal moving her back; she was fine. And orders were orders.

"Sure, carry on," he said eventually, giving a final wave as he turned left, accelerating down onto the maintenance road. He placed the mouthpiece onto the clip in the dashboard as the car made the transition from the tarmac road onto the freshly cut forest path, which was wide enough for two way traffic, but it was merely more than a mud track. The trees here were much closer to the side of the Jeep; ferns slapped against the side of the door, and a few leaves reached in through the open window, brushing his face. He rested his shoulder on the lip of the door, and accelerated forwards, rounding a corner in the dim light which reached the floor beneath the canopy of the jungle. The fence at his side reached an intersection for a moment, and then the ten-foot high, relatively flimsy looking fence was replaced by an impressive structure, twenty-five feet high. It towered above him, the metal wires thick and elastic, and the concrete base six feet wide. You'd need a tank to get past it. Behind it was a large valley, an extensive paddock stretching off into the distance.

Through the trees he could just about see the break where the north-east edge of the lagoon marked the other side of the enclosure. But through the fence there was nothing to be seen, except trees, and grass.

Jerry drove around a last corner, and then the road sloped upwards again, out of the jungle. He stepped on the accelerator, revving the engine as he climbed up out of the canopy again. He reached a small rise, set aside from the fence, raising him some forty feet into the air. From here he was just above the tree line, and was provided with a perfect view of the entire paddock. On his right was a small patch of grass which had been cleared out of the jungle. It had long muddy gouges cleared out of the ground where he had parked up here before.

He spun the wheel in his hand and pulled off the road, following the tracks around in the grass until the bonnet faced forwards into the paddock. He clicked off the engine, and sat for a moment in the sudden silence, the distant chorus of the jungle reaching his ears. Looking out through the trees, he scanned the entire paddock for almost a minute, feeling the sweat collect on his brow in the heat.

After several minutes, he couldn't see anything.

Odd, he thought. She was usually down by the lagoon shoreline this time of day.

He reached for the radio, and picked up the mouthpiece. He changed over to channel two, and pressed 'transmit'.

"Control, this is Harding," he said, opening the driver door and stepping out into the tall grass.

The radio crackled for a moment.

"Control," a rough voice said. It was John Arnold, the head technician; chain smoking at forty-three years of age, he was a tall black man who typed like a bastard.

"I'm over at the Rex paddock; pull up the tracker for me would you? I'm having a hard time finding her today."

"Sure. One minute."

There was the sound of rapid typing which filtered over the radio. Harding reached into the Jeep, and pulled out a clear plastic bag containing his lunch; fried chicken on buttered bread. Grabbing the mouthpiece, he pulled it out on the extendable, soft chord, and ran it out of the door. Jumping up onto the bonnet with the radio, he opened the plastic bag, and brought out his sandwich, taking a bite. He waited for Arnold, propping his back up against the windshield and crossing one leg over the other.

The radio squawked.

"Okay, Tyrannosaur paddock. I'm reading her."

"Where is she?"

"South-east, near the feeding area."

The feeding area was a field where they'd feed the adult Tyrannosaurus Rex every day. She'd got pretty good at knowing when and where she was going to get her food; turns out you could teach a lizard the size of a house where her food bowl was.

He unclipped a little pocket attached to his belt, and pulled out a small pair of binoculars. Lifting them to his eyes, chewing, he looked through down into a large field in the south-east, scanning the area.

And then, like an explosion, a flock of white birds burst from the canopy, and flew up into the air. Harding grinned through a mouthful of bread as he swung his binoculars over, and looked down at her.

She stood stock still at the periphery of the field, eerily so. Her head bobbed up and down with each breath. Her massive jaws worked once, opening and closing silently. Her eyes were fixated on the centre of the field, at the red bloody mass sprawled in the grass. They supplied her with a fresh goat every three days, but she usually always ate the whole thing. Today she had hardly touched it.

She wasn't eating.

Frowning, Harding swallowed, and clicked the radio on.

"John, the Tyrannosaur's acting strangely again."

There was a brief pause, and then John spoke over the sound of his typing.

"We've had reports from some of the rangers about that for the past few days; acting erratically, especially when she's fed."

"She's not eating," Harding said, "you think it's her bowels?"

"I'm not sure. Reports say she's drinking fine, and she's eating a little. But she's leaving the carcasses out."

Harding scratched his head, watching her. She seemed hesitant, but it wasn't that. A forty foot long lizard wasn't afraid of much. She seemed to be almost frustrated. He watched as she waved her tiny forearms in the air, her jaws working again.

As she did so, she shuddered, and shook her head.

"Hey John, we better get some rangers down here with some tranquiliser" he said into the mouthpiece, "I think she's got toothache."

Harding stood over the immense body of the Tyrannosaur, which breathed slowly, the massive chest heaving in and out with each breath. Workmen ran this way and that, securing thick wires which ran horizontally across her body at ten foot intervals, tethering her to the ground.

It was one thing to get her down. It was another to keep her there.

"How does it look, Jerry?" said Muldoon from the heavy swinging tail, adjusting his hat on his head.

Harding stared down into the gaping mouth of the dinosaur, the six inch teeth glinting in the sunlight.

"She's got some kind of gum infection," Harding said, lifting the thick lips to the side with what looked to him like a giant toilet brush.

"How bad is it?"

"I bet it's painful, but it's nothing serious. If we give her a good scrub every now and then she'll be alright."

Muldoon stood in his khaki shorts, and laughed at the prospect of brushing her teeth. "Alright, Jerry, we'll keep her fangs nice and shiny. Make sure those pearly whites glow pretty when this place opens up."


	6. Chapter 5: Killer Instinct

**CHAPTER 5 – KILLER INSTINCT**

Raptors. Murderous, vicious, and evil. There was no other way to put it. Those animals were perfect killing machines. They were always the scourge of the park, and they have the animals of their era a bad name. I knew from the start that they were going to be trouble, even when they were still cute, playing with their rag toys. After you've spent enough time around man-eaters, you get their scent, you see how they work. I could see it in their eyes.

But they were different. Different from anything I've ever seen; and I've seen it all.

Lions, Tigers, Bears, Cougars, whatever; when it comes to killing humans, they're all the same. Ninety nine times out of a hundred, it's the human's fault. As a general rule, animals that've had interactions with humans before are afraid of them, and know how dangerous we can be. Even those that don't treat us with a certain respect, because who knows what we could do?

So when they do go for us; all the mauling and so-called unprovoked attacks were caused by the person surprising them, coming up from behind them, or appearing over the crest of a hill. It was a defensive reaction.

But the Raptors knew from the beginning how dangerous they were, and what they could do to us if they ever got the chance. Their eyes were just...empty. See, when you look into the eyes of a Lion, you can feel his primal instincts. But these lizards are just flesh, and teeth.

And when they finally got out, they had one hell of a time. Afterwards, I knew they'd enjoyed it. They enjoyed killing.

And at first we thought it was just us they were after. But it turned out that they couldn't even be trusted with each other. God damn scientists, they just don't know when to stop. Creating eight of those things was the biggest mistake of all. That's far too large a number of animals that dangerous, especially intelligent ones like they were. Because there'll always be one who rises above the others.

And she's a bitch.

_Robert Muldoon, 1991_

**Robert Muldoon**

**June 30****th****, 1991**

_**Velociraptor Paddock, Isla Nublar**_

"How many?" said Muldoon, rubbing his chin as he stared down at the ground.

"Five," murmured Cox, bending over the mass of scaly skin.

The entire floor around them was red, splattered with blood, for almost ten feet in every direction. Dotted around them were several, nine foot long corpses. Muldoon stood over one of them now, looking down into the staring eye of the dead Velociraptor. Its jaws lay open, motionless, the claws curving over backwards. Post-mortem contraction was beginning to set in, the body bending over slowly backwards, the head moving up over the back towards the tail. A large gash ran from its ribcage all the way along its flank, across the stomach and tapering at the thick bone, the large muscle bulging through; it had been cut right down to the bone.

All of the Raptors in the clearing had been sheared to pieces.

"You sure we've got them all accounted for? If one of them was loose..." he said, looking around at the jungle surrounding them. They'd put the Raptor paddock in the middle of an area of dense foliage; another mistake. They stood in a clearing, an indication that it was artificial – a nest of sorts.

"No, we've got them all. Five here, three incapacitated," Cox murmured, indicating the truck on the other side of the fence, parked up on the road.

Muldoon nodded as a bunch of men in blue quarantine suits came bustling into the area, and began spraying the ground down with disinfectant, washing away the blood. Muldoon and Cox obligingly stepped away from the bodies, back towards the open gate which allowed passage in and out of the paddock.

It had been much harder than they had anticipated capturing the three remaining Raptors. There was no way that they could enter the paddock at any time when they were conscious; they were simply far too dangerous. So they had to tranquilise them from outside, and that meant getting a clear shot in a jungle. Getting them to come to the fence had taken most of the night. The Raptors knew something was up; there was never so much activity around their fence when they were fed.

But Muldoon had been patient, dangling the deer carcass five feet from the ground on a crane which extended over the top of the fence.

They came eventually of course; they were still animals, and they still got hungry. But it wasn't at all how he had expected. He thought he had been ambushing _them_. But it turns out that the Raptors were just as full of surprises as he had anticipated; and that was saying something. The entire thing had been silent. They had emerged from the trees like ghosts, charging towards the fence at astonishing speed. They were so fast, too fast. Whooshing sounds of escaping gas had wrung in his ears as workmen all around him rained darts down into the enclosure. It had taken them a long time to get them down. The Raptors had thrown themselves against the fence, darts sticking out of their necks and their powerful thighs. Sparks had exploded from the fence, lighting up the space under the canopy of the jungle like a Christmas tree. Men had rushed forwards to spray the underbrush with extinguishers as small fires burst to life as the sparks settled on the ground. The Raptors had fallen to the ground, apparently unharmed.

It had taken them five minutes to fall to the ground, unconscious. And even then, they lay there growling. Muldoon had never come across such hardy creatures.

Now Muldoon and Cox passed through the gate, passing two armed men standing sentinel. Their sniper rifles glinted in the reduced light; they nodded curtly. Muldoon nodded back, and they passed out onto the road.

The truck's engine rumbled quietly at the side of the road, covered by the sound of deep snarling. Men stood around it on all sides, some holding long sticks, and others holding heavy shotguns. They milled about restlessly, hesitantly stepping around the three cages which were being loaded onto the back of the truck by the massive crane which loomed above them.

"How's it going?" shouted Muldoon to the supervisor, who was shouting and waving his hands at the crane operator.

He turned to face them for a second, and gave them a thumbs up, before turning back to give instructions.

The first of the cages was suspended in mid-air, ten feet up, moving slowly along towards the ground towards the flatbed lorry.

The cages were made of thick steel, but had dozens of small holes cut into them so that vets could administer drugs, they could continue to tranquilise the animals, and so the Raptors could be observed. But they also served as convenient holes to poke in the muzzle of a gun. Nobody in the clearing would have any problem getting rid of the Raptors; it was only because they were so valuable that they were still alive.

Six men followed it on the ground, looking up and pattering along carefully, keeping their long cattle prods aimed upwards. Suddenly there was a shriek, and the cage shook on its tether violently, the crunching sound of metal floating through the air.

Men immediately rose up onto the tips of their toes and began jabbing their shock prods through the holes in the cage. There was an electrical sizzle, and a high-pitched, blood curdling scream.

Then silence.

A moment later the electrical motor of the crane started once more and the cage began moving once again.

Muldoon approached the second cage, his eyes fixed on the cold anodized metal. He nodded to one of the workmen, who looked at him quizzically, stepping aside. He approached the cage, and saw the other workmen tense; he was within two feet of the thick metallic box, and they had all been strictly instructed never to get that close. Last time somebody had done so, he had been slashed across his shins by...Her.

Went right down to the bone.

He was staring at Her now; 'Big One' the men called her. It was pretty appropriate. Not that she was physically larger than the other Raptors, but there had never been any question that she was the Alpha female in the pack.

It was getting dark now, especially under the jungle canopy, as the sun began to set in the background. A floodlight had been activated behind him, and through one of the small holes, as his vision adjusted; a single, reptilian eye came into focus, surrounded by thick brown scaly skin. The vertical pupil stared right back at him. There was no hint of movement whatsoever.

Muldoon felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end; as per usual.

There was nothing in those eyes; just death.

"What have you done, Big Girl?" he whispered to her, his voice gravelly.

For a moment she didn't move. And then, she snarled. It rose slowly and seamlessly from nothing, and carried on for several moments, before dying away. It could have been nothing at all, barely more than a slight vibration in the air. But even Muldoon, who was battle hardened after years of handling dangerous animals, felt his heart begin to beat harder.

But he kept his stare steady, and slowly turned away from her.

Shaking his head, Muldoon led Cox over to the Wrangler parked up awkwardly further down the road, and they climbed in. The supervisor could take care of the rest; they needed to get back and brief Hammond and Arnold about this.

With a roar the engine sputtered to life, and he put the Jeep in gear. They accelerated off down the road, the chilling sound of a final cold snarl chasing after them.

It was dark now, and he had to switch on his headlights to see the maintenance strip road ahead of him. Cox switched the radio on beside him.

"Control, this is Cox," he said, "remaining Raptors have been successfully contained, are en-route to visitor complex."

There was a brief pause, followed by a crackle of static, and then John Arnold spoke, his voice muffled, no doubt by a cigarette.

"Got it, Noah. Is Robert with you?"

"I'm here," said Muldoon, spinning the wheel in his hand as they drove up onto the ridge road, heading north towards the visitor centre.

"What's the final death count?" said a voice. It was Joel Anderson, the new assistant technician.

"Five dead," said Muldoon.

"Shit," Anderson's voice murmured; his quiet voice crackly over the radio.

"Hammond's not going to like that," Arnold said, his typing carrying across the channel easily. It was always irritating talking to Arnold over the radio; he only stopped typing when you were talking to him in person.

"Yeah well, he'll get over it. The less of them that are running around, the better off we'll be," Muldoon said.

"We'll file the report when we get back," Muldoon said. "See you soon."

"Right, Rob," Anderson said in the background, "just great."

The radio clicked off, and they drove along in silence for a moment, before Cox spoke darkly, staring forwards.

"Do you think she could have killed them all by herself?"

They came to a fork in the road, and Muldoon accelerated on the main road which ran north-south on the island, a wide road with this tarmac; this was to be the central road that the tour cars would run on when Jurassic Park opened.

"What else?" he said eventually, shrugging. "Do you think there was a conspiracy, some kind of Raptor uprising?"

He laughed to himself in the cab.

"No, I mean, maybe there was a split, and the three of them killed the other five..." Cox was murmuring to himself more than to Muldoon.

"No," said Muldoon, "the others haven't shown any signs of that kind of violence."

"Rob, come on, let's be honest. We only see the bastards two percent of the time, we can barely get a glimpse of them on the security cameras and nobody's going to go looking for them in person. We don't know what they're really like."

Muldoon was unconvinced. "There's just something about Her. She's just different from the others somehow. I could see it in her eyes; she was born a potential murderer."

"They're all potential murderers, for Christ sake! If it was just her killing off all the others; why did she kill them, and why not the other two?"

"I don't know. I'm going to try and apply reason to their actions. But it was Her; I know it was Her."


	7. Chapter 6: The Spitters

**CHAPTER 6 – THE SPITTERS**

At first we all thought they were pretty flimsy, and quite beautiful. Graceful, I guess you could call them, the way they moved and slithered through the jungle. They had nothing on the Raptors, that's for sure, and we treated them like household animals more than anything. Of all the species in the park, at first, they seemed to be most like some kind of dog; they were like puppies. It's a pity that we took the fact that they were carnivorous for granted.

Of course, nobody could have predicted that something like that would happen. After all, there were only a handful of species of lizard in the world that could do something like that. It's restricted to snakes, cobras primarily.

How were we to know something like that?

_Noah Cox, 1995_

**Noah Cox**

**December 13****th****, 1991**

_**Main Road, Dilophosaurus Paddock, Isla Nublar**_

Cox leaned against the front bumper of the Jeep Wrangler, twiddling the button strap on his radio. He watched the maintenance crew in a detached way as they bent over the large steel box which stuck up out of the ground at the side of the road. Four men dressed in blue overalls were bustled around, laying tools around all over the tarmac, leaning into the capacitor box which had been opened two minutes before.

He had paperwork to fill out; construction orders and recommendations on security features for the new Velociraptor holding pen which was being planned. They had found that they couldn't release the Raptors back into their paddock without them attacking their perimeter fence each time the maintenance crews carried out their rounds and tried to feed them. They were simply too rowdy and dangerous; if the fences failed anywhere along their stretch – and there was quite a bit, considering the size of their paddock – they would have the opportunity to escape. And they could kill several people and innumerable animals before they could be captured again. On an island that was mostly jungle, they could hide too well. It was hard enough keeping track of them in their own enclosure.

They were simply too dangerous. And so they had decided to move them to a temporary enclosure, small and compact, where they would be monitored at all times. This would ensure that there was a reduced chance of their fencing failing – as they even had their own power line – and everybody would know exactly where they were at all times.

The only thing that bothered Cox was that Hammond wanted it built right outside the visitor centre. Which pained Muldoon and Cox greatly; if they ever did escape their pen, they'd be right outside their front door.

He stretched, looking out at the brightening sky which lay in the distance, beyond the main road which extended away from them to the south. It was dawn, and he had been up all night. He wanted to get back to the safari lodge and get a few hours of sleep before he filled out the rest of his paperwork—

An almost inaudible cry floated out of the trees to his left. He peered over curiously, and saw the ferns through the fence shift to the side. A dark shape flitted across his vision, interrupting the seamless greenery.

He stood up a little straighter.

"Something wrong?" said one of the workmen, looking over his shoulder at Cox, and then at the fence.

"Just the Dilophosaurs," said Cox, "they won't bother you."

The workmen stared at him for a moment, and then turned to the ferns beyond the fence, and then shrugged, going back to work. Cox watched curiously; he hadn't really seen them close up for over a year, and they had grown a lot since then. The last time he had seen one it had been barely over four foot high. They grew fast.

He didn't know dinosaurs would grow so fast; he suspected Wu and his guys must have done something to them.

The sound came again, followed swiftly by a soft hoot, very similar to that of an owl, a hundred feet to the south. The workers paid no attention to the sounds, and chattered to each other quietly; Cox picked up a few words, something about dinner.

Part of his job was monitoring the welfare and work ethic of his subordinates; which was basically a nice way of saying that he was supposed to be the hard-ass workaholic figure that made sure none of the drones slacked.

But he got on too well with the workers around here to reprimand them. And after all, dinner tonight was pot roast—

A sly, slithering hiss vibrated in the air. Cox looked through the thick wires of the cyclone fencing, and his eyes narrowed at the two dark brown skulls which had emerged from the foliage, ten feet in. They stood motionless, occasionally cocking their heads slowly to the side inquisitively. The thin snouts worked a little, revealing long rows of small razor sharp teeth.

"Gone on now, get," called Cox.

The animal's eyes swivelled sharply in their sockets to lock onto him, and their cold stare pierced him for a moment. The Dilophosaurs had always come across as being friendly and rather...well, dopey.

But these animals conveyed no hint of remorse or general kindness.

Not that it bothered him, as they were perfectly safe behind the fence. Ten thousand volts of electricity ran through the metallic wires; all the animals in the park had long learned to stay well clear of them. In fact, last time a Dilophosaur had brushed the fence Harding had to have them all taken in to treat it for burn wounds. Their bodies were a little too fragile to take it; apparently they were some of the earliest dinosaur predators.

As he watched he saw a flash of colour, causing him to blink instinctively. He shrugged it off, and looked again, closer this time. He waited for a few moments, and then it happened again. The ridge structures which ran in a v-formation along the top of their heads were flushing bright red and orange.

"Ooh cool," he said quietly.

They paid him no attention as he left the bonnet of the car, and approached the fence.

They simply opened their mouths widely, revealing the long, snake-like tongues inside, along with their full complements of pearly white fangs. For a moment they paused, and looked quite comical; standing in the ferns the upturned structure of their jaws caused them to look as if they were laughing.

He felt his lips twitch as he suppressed a laugh.

And then, with a sudden _snap_, the dinosaurs flung their heads downwards in a single fluid motion. There was a high whine which ran through the air, like a bullet, and then a harsh wet _smack_, followed immediately by a scream of agony.

As he watched the Dilophosaurs brought their heads back up swiftly, and snapped them down once more. This time he caught a glimpse of something clear glint in the sunlight as it shot through the fence and towards the workers, which was once again followed by a _smack_.

Cox froze as he turned his head, bewildered, to see one of the workers writhing on the ground, clutching his face. The other men were yelling; some were running for their truck, others were huddled around the fallen man, helping him up.

Cox turned and ran towards him, shouting orders.

"Get him up and into the back of that truck, immediately. You!" he shouted to somebody climbing into the driver's seat. "Get a team out here with tranquiliser darts and rifles!"

Everybody was shouting a blind panic.

Dragging the man to his feet, Cox glanced over the fence, and saw the Dilophosaurs standing exactly as they had done before, their crests flushing bright red, and continued to snap their heads at them.

Jesus, he thought, they were _spitting_ at him.

He and three others dragged the injured man towards the truck parked up alongside the road. They pulled him behind the other side, using the vehicle as a shield, just as a glob of spit slammed into the rear door, dripping downwards sickeningly.

"Look at me," Cox said to the injured man, who was scratching at his face, grunting.

It took some convincing to get him to hold still, and Cox caught the rising stench of dried vomit from the man's face. The others were retching in the grass beside them, as globs of spit continued to impact the other side of the truck.

"Ah, screw this," said Cox, running darting from behind the maintenance truck towards his parked Jeep, thirty feet away. "Get him inside that truck!" he shouted over his shoulder.

High whined buzzed past his head, and a wet slap of spit slashed against his shins, almost knocking him off balance. Running along, but beginning to trip, he made a kind of speeding dive at his Jeep. Not stopping, he careened into the bonnet, bounced off, and landed on the floor next to the driver's door. He scrambled to his feet, and tore the door open.

The first thing he thought of was his rifle, but it wasn't loaded and was stored in the truck; no time for that. So he looked around the interior of the cab as globs of spit slammed against the windows, obscuring his view of the outside.

There was nothing; he had come completely unprepared. He cast aside a stack of work papers which sat idly on the passenger seat, which blew up into the air, floating outside onto the road. There was a flashlight, some empty candy bar wrappers, but not much else.

Desperately, he tore the glove box open, and peered inside.

There was an emergency kit in there, a box of bullets for his rifle, and a picture of his little boy.

The hell with it, he thought, and tugged out the emergency kit. It burst open as he removed it from the compartment, the contents spilling across the floor.

Items rained down on the floor, rattling around; bandages, sutures, anaesthetic, batteries, some water. And a flare gun.

He grabbed it, and broke open the chamber.

Empty.

He felt a surge of annoyance, and then he saw the flares hanging down on a strap attached to the grip. He pulled one out, and poked it onto the chamber, his fingers slipping. Cocking the tiny gun in his hands, he aimed it over the top of the door, keeping his head below and aimed in the general direction of the attacking dinosaurs.

He squeezed the trigger, and there was a burst of light, and a harsh sizzle.

Immediately there was an effect. The Dilophosaurs yelped, and the spitting instantly stopped.

Cox stood up, and watched as they wheeled, and dove into the bushes as the flare soared through the fence, trailing a tail of smoke.

"Go, go!" he shouted to the men in the truck, ducking into his Jeep and gunning the engine.

Both vehicles' engines roared as they soared away down the road, the tires screeching on the tarmac. He quickly turned on the radio, and immediately the injured worker's shouts of pain filled the interior of the Jeep.

"Control," he said into the mouthpiece, "we have a member of maintenance crew B who has sustained injury to his head, requesting immediate transport to mainland for medical assistance."

"Roger that," said a voice. It was Anderson.

Cox accelerated, pulled up alongside the truck for a moment. He gave the driver an encouraging thumbs up, and then roared off down the road, towards the visitor centre.

"Get Muldoon down to the Dilophosaurus paddock immediately; he's going to want to hear about this."

Arnold's voice drifted over the radio in the background. "Got it. Do I even want to know what this is about?"

"You'll never believe this," Cox said grimly.

_INGEN INCIDENT REPORT_

_SUBJECT: PERSONEL INJURY – POSSIBLE BLINDNESS IMINENT_

_SUBMITTED BY: _

_NOAH COX, PARK RANGER. ROBERT MULDOON, PARK WARDEN._

_Incident occurred December 13__th__, 1991, at northern perimeter of external paddock fencing, in close proximity to Dilophosaurus enclosure. A routine inspection of quartz lighting capacitor was tended to by standard maintenance crew of four technicians, accompanied by Ranger Cox. _

_During inspection, the activity in the area attracted the attention of two adult Dilophosaur specimens which entered the vicinity. However, work continued as normal due to assertion that security perimeter was sufficient to maintain a safe working environment. _

_Unprovoked, the animals then attacked the maintenance crew, by spitting._

_Previously unrecorded behaviour, the Dilophosaurs managed to spit a poisonous substance some twenty feet from their enclosure to the crew working on the capacitor. _

_One of the work crew was impacted by the substance in the left eye, and has been transported via emergency helicopter to the mainland, and is currently receiving treatment, however it is speculated that he may lose his sight in his injured eye._

_Recommendation: Antivenin for poisonous substance must be installed at all maintenance sheds across the island. Dilophosaur specimens must be studied extensively in order to obtain sufficient data on the ability to project this new substance. Warnings of potential threat posed by Dilophosaurus as a species must be added to enclosures before opening the park to the public._


	8. Chapter 7: DuckBill Debacle

**CHAPTER 7 – DUCK-BILL DEBACLE**

The time I spent there was the greatest of my life. But I never really understood some of the problems I was faced with. Some of the animals acted so strangely; exhibiting behaviour which didn't make any logical sense. The worst thing is that some of it was self-harming, the dinosaurs being bred were sometimes suicidal, and a little retarded, especially the earlier version numbers. Not that I bothered myself with the semantics and little numbers that Wu and his team assigned to the animals, I didn't like it personally. They assigned them designation numbers instead of names, as if they were just products instead of living, breathing animals. They weren't given the respect that they deserved.

Over time it became generally accepted that there were two possibilities for driving this strange behaviour, which only showed up in a few of the species, most notably the Tyrannosaurs, the Hadrosaurs and the Stegosaurs.

First possibility was that the dinosaurs, which hadn't been seen on the earth in sixty-five million years, required lessons in how to behave and how to survive, just like humans did. As the animals in the park had no adult members of their own species to relate to, and to learn from, they developed their own random behaviour, and often wound of up getting themselves hurt or worse.

But that one never struck me as right. Lizards were born with every instinct they needed to survive in the world; there were no lessons, no schooling. They just hatched and got on with it. Birds did acquire some tutoring from their parents, as birds did indeed care for their young for some time. But nothing significant. Birds were encouraged by their parents to fly, but they weren't instructed on how to do so. For all intensive purposes, the baby birds knew how to fly, they always have done. They just need a little push.

The second option was that several species weren't being engineered properly. From what I could tell, the dinosaurs were reverse engineered using amphibian DNA to fill in the gaps of the dinosaur DNA which had degraded over time in the amber. The dinosaurs were experiencing distortions of their instincts, caused by junk in their genetic code.

It made more sense to me; it explained why only some species were affected and why there was such degradation of behaviour.

After time we accepted that it was caused by defects in their DNA, and this prompted GAP and the version numbers. After years the problems improved, but of course there was always something.

_Jerry Harding, 2001_

**Jerry Harding**

**February 1****st****, 1992**

_**Maintenance Road J-7, Herbivore Paddock #2, Isla Nublar**_

"What the fuck is she doing?" murmured Harding, peering through the large pair of binoculars.

The heat was intense. He sat in his Jeep Wrangler, with the window rolled halfway down, but it made no difference; it was hotter outside than it was inside. He was parked up on a small rise inside one of the larger paddocks in the park. Tall trees which marked the periphery of the jungle were surrounded him on all sides in the distance. But the field of tall grass which he sat in was sizeable, the size of almost two football fields. And it was full of dinosaurs.

To the south was the north-west shore of the lagoon, which was the centre of activity, and was where Harding was aiming his binoculars.

Insects clicked and sang incessantly in the grass all around him, and he wiped a bead of sweat from the tip of his chin, blinking. He glanced at the man beside him, Kyle Sanders, who was one of the Geneticists in the park. He was helping Harding document the behaviour by any of the animals.

"She doesn't look too comfortable," Sanders said, jotting notes down on his notepad.

"Fleas, do you think?" Harding said, frowning.

"Their hide is over an inch thick, I don't think fleas would bother them. And they don't have any hair follicles anyway."

"Okay, but that doesn't mean it's a behavioural defect. Maybe she has a rash."

"Yeah, maybe."

They were observing an adult Hadrosaur who was milling around in circles half a mile away, down by the shore of the lagoon.

In the distance Harding could just about make out the long, graceful necks of the Brachiosaurus herd, standing in the jungle, slowly arcing their necks over to the trees. Every now and then, they would lift their heads and give a deep, resonating call.

The Hadrosaurs' herd was nearby, but she remained slightly off to one side by herself, walking around in circle timidly, seemingly confused.

Occasionally she stopped to nip at the foliage which lay at her feet, but then apparently became distracted, and began turning her head from side to side. It looked to Harding like she was trying to get at her own body; like a dog chasing its tail.

"What version number is she? Have the Hadrosaurs been corrected before?" he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"Hmm, let's see," said Sanders, ruffling around in his stack of papers for a moment. He pulled out a blue envelope and opened it up, consulting a chart for a moment, muttering to himself.

"Looks like all the adults in active population are at version two, but some of the infants in the nursery just shipped over from Sorna are version three."

"What caused the upgrade of the version number?"

Kyle flicked over a few pages, and frowned for a moment. "Says here they kept brushing up against the fences, and didn't really seem to learn from it. Even cows learn to stay away from electrified fencing, so we figured there was something wrong with them."

Harding nodded. It was a fair argument.

"Well, we'll get nowhere looking at her from this far away," Sanders said, and reached behind into the back seat. A moment later he reappeared, a long barrel made of silver stainless steel metal following him. Sanders broke open the barrel of the tranquiliser gun, nodded, and with a quick glance around, pressed a button on the dashboard. With an electronic whir the retractable cloth top of the Jeep Wrangler rattled backwards over their head, and disappeared behind the back seat. Sunlight streamed in onto their unprotected heads, and Harding grimaced in discomfort as the leather seats began to heat up.

Sanders stood up in the Jeep, and pulled the back of the rifle up to his shoulder, and aimed down towards the lagoon, leaning his head towards the telescopic sight attached to the top of the barrel.

"I didn't think Geneticists were trained to sedate dinosaurs," Harding said, watching with a concerned look on his face.

"I've been practising," said Kyle, his finger moving slowly towards the trigger. "There she is," he whispered to himself.

Harding raised the binoculars to his face once again to watch. The Hadrosaur was still milling around in the circle; the other members of her herd ignored her, feeding on the plants growing in the shallows of the lagoon.

There was a hiss of escaping gas, and a high-pitched whistle leading away from them, streaming out across the grassy plain. For a moment nothing happened. And then the Hadrosaurs' head popped snapped up, and turned to look right at them.

"Did you get her?" said Harding, leaning forward in his seat.

The Hadrosaur raised her head, and gave a wailing, mournful cry. Immediately the other members of her herd raised their heads, and cried back. The Hadrosaur wheeled around in circles, agitated. And then, suddenly, it ran for it. The herd gave panicked yelps, dropping the food from their mouths, and snorting.

Harding threw the binoculars down, and glared at Sanders, who stood stock still with the rifle, which had fallen to his waist.

"You missed her!" Harding said.

"No, no," Sanders babbled, "I didn't." He looked down at the rifle for a second, and then scratched his head, looking up out of the Jeep, at the herd which was now starting to move after the first animal. "I think I got the dosage right."

"I've put these animals down a dozen times," said Jerry, snatching the rifle and flinging it into the back seat, "If you'd have hit her, she'd be on the floor already. But instead, look at her," he pointed out at the escaped Hadrosaur, who was by now sprinting across the plain, hollering loudly, followed swiftly by the rest of the herd.

"Oh well done," said Harding, and gunned the engine. "Sit down; we have to go after her."

He revved the engine, and stamped on the accelerator. The Jeep raced forwards, grass and mud spattering up behind them. The suspension squeaked as they bounded across the uneven ground towards the wheeling herd. The animals were large; almost thirty feet long and twelve feet tall, but from here they still looked quite small.

The radio crackled, and Arnold's agitated voice came spluttering over the channel, barely audible over the road of the engine. "—the fuck is going on?! The tracker system says the Hadrosaurs are stampeding in B paddock!"

Sanders grabbed for the mouthpiece, and shouted into it, holding onto the passenger door as they soared over a deep rut in the ground. "Mishap, John! We're in pursuit!"

"This isn't the world's fucking scariest police chases!" Arnold's voice shouted, "Those are priceless animals!"

Harding swung the wheel in his hand, and the Jeep swerved parallel to the stampeding herd, which was sprinting across the field in no particular direction, and heading for no particular location, surrounded by a cloud of thick dust.

"Take the wheel," he shouted to Kyle, who looked at him, wild eyed.

"_What?"_

"You're taking my place," Harding said, and before Sanders could disagree with him he stood up cautiously, and jumped over into the back seat, landing next to the tranquiliser gun in a heap. He coughed in the dust cloud which descended over the Jeep, blown over from the herd by the light breeze blowing through the paddock.

Sanders gunned the engine in front of him, and he could feel them speeding up, moving towards their target animal at the front, still hollering.

He untangled his limbs, and pulled himself up using the head of the back seat, grabbing the rifle. He cracked the barrel open and looked inside carefully, trying on to dislodge the darts as they rattled over the ground. Good, there were three more darts. Snapping it shut, he grabbed the seat in front of him, and raised himself into a half stand, half crouch, and raised the rifle to his eye, carefully letting go of the seat so that he could use both hands.

The Hadrosaur came into his sights for a moment, and then he toppled over as Sanders span the wheel, and the Jeep moved away from the herd, moving around a large rock formation which jutted up out of the ground.

Swearing, Harding got up again, and this time wedged one of his feet under the driver's seat, and braced his weight with the other by leaning against the back seat. Raising the rifle again, he had a much steadier balance, and found the Hadrosaur instantly as they burst around the other side of the rocks, and fired.

There was a hiss of gas, and the Hadrosaur roared in fright and rage. The rest of the herd scattered as the lead Hadrosaur slowed, roaring and wheeling, trying to get at the red tipped dart which stuck out from its right thigh.

The other animals were by now running for their lives in different directions, but were still sprinting randomly, and still dangerous. Sanders span the wheel, and slowly settled into a wide arc, running in circles around the sedated animal, which was now wobbling on its feet, groaning.

Sanders continued circling the animal, driving off the others to a safe distance, revving the engine, making them look as threatening as possible.

With a crash, the Hadrosaur fell to the ground, snuffling loudly, its high legs kicking weakly. Sandler slowed, and eventually, at a signal from Harding, they took a final turn and approached the fallen animal, and the engine died.

The sudden silence was almost deafening. A bird twittered in the distance. The engine clicked and crackled as it cooled, but other than that there was no sound. Harding dropped the rifle, and stood for a moment, observing the animal.

It had settled into a rhythm of deep, laborious breathing, the large ribcage slowly inflating and deflating. He watched the skin glint in the sun; deep green with dark brown striation patters adorning the animal's back.

"She's down," he said quietly, and jumped out onto the ground.

Sanders popped open the driver's door, and they both trudged through the tall grass, cautiously approaching her. But she didn't seem to even register their presence, and simply kept on breathing. Harding stood over her head and bent down slowly, frowning at her flanks.

"So this is what she's been so bothered about," he said quietly.

"What?" muttered Sandler, stumbling through the grass towards him from the tail.

"These wounds."

She had three long, very thin lines running all the way along her left side. They weren't deep, but the skin had been removed, and bright, angry red tissue was showing through. The wounds looked infected.

"We wouldn't have been able to see these cuts, they're too thin to be seen on a dark body like this unless up close," Sanders muttered, and pulled out a tiny notebook and began scribbling with a biro from his shirt breast pocket.

"What do you think?" Sanders asked. "Caused by another member of the herd? Branches in the jungle?"

Harding shook his head slowly, and then sighed. "They're not cutting or slicing wounds. They're dead straight, see? And the flesh around them is blackened and cauterized. These are burns."

Sanders sagged, and swore.

"That means she's been at the fences," he said glumly.

"'Fraid so," Harding said, leaning over the animal and crouching down, stroking her skull lightly. "Looks like you didn't fix her problem after all. Get over to the radio and tell Arnold to get a crew out here to monitor her until she wakes up."

Sanders nodded, and trudged slowly back towards the Jeep.

"Oh well," Harding heard him say, "Back to the drawing board, I guess."


	9. Chapter 8: Genesis of Fort Knox

**CHAPTER 8 – GENESIS OF FORT KNOX**

It took almost half a year to get the right provisions in place for their...prison.

Fort Knox, we called it. We had it built from the base out of solid concrete, and ten thousand volts ran through every cable on her, surrounding them from every angle. And the living quarters were equally generous; a wire covered pit smothered with ferns to protect them from the sun, and so we didn't have to look at their ugly faces. Floodlights were in place, two guards on duty at all times; the works.

That's how we'd envisioned it from the start. It was a bitch to build, but nobody complained; those bastards needed to be housed in a hole so deep that they'd never get out.

We thought it was impenetrable. And it was built to be that way, albeit the other way around. Inescapable would be a better word.

Turns out all they needed was a walking vat of lard and a lightning bolt to undo it all, but at the time, it was one hell of a prison.

_Noah Cox, 1997_

**Noah Cox**

**May 18****th****, 1992**

_**Velociraptor Holding Pen, Visitor Area, Isla Nublar**_

"How you doing in there sir?" the artificial voice boomed over the loudspeaker.

"Dandy," called Cox, shielding his eyes from the harsh quartz floodlights which bore down on the deep pit of Fort Knox. He ran his hands over the smooth concrete wall which extended twelve feet above his head, and he frowned at it. He jumped upwards, but succeeded in only raising himself only a few feet off the ground.

They had completed the entire structure earlier that week, and the evaluative process had begun to clear it for use; there was no point putting the Raptors in place if the thing didn't work. But how do you test it out, apart from calculate the Raptors jump heights, their strength, and then build the structure to compensate for it.

So they were trying something original; they locked Cox up in it. And he had to get out.

He had been in here for almost half an hour, and for the life of him he could see no way out. He was surrounded on all sides by foot thick solid concrete walls. The door was held shut by a pneumatic vacuum sealed system. The only feeding apparatus that entered the pen came in from above through the electrified fence roofing. And even if he got past that he'd have to get past the thick steel wires – also electrified by ten thousand volts – which were angled inwards to prevent anything climbing on them.

He frowned as he looked up at the watchtower positioned above the pen, where the floodlights streamed down from. It was also up there that several work crewmembers and engineers looked down at him, smiling at him.

"You convinced?" the loudspeaker said, the voice resonating in the enclosed space.

"...Yes."

"You sure you don't want us to turn on the fences, give you a real challenge?"

"Only if you want fried Ranger on the menu this evening," another voice said in the background of the loudspeaker.

Chuckling voices and muffled laughter filtered down into the pit, and Cox shook his head. "Alright," he murmured, "you've made your point."

There was a pneumatic _plunk_, and the thick concrete door of the pit rose slowly upwards, revealing a small recess in the structure, measuring six foot square, before there was another, identical concrete door. Cox stepped forwards into the recess and the inner door moved back down, resealing. He looked up at the three bright lights which glowed above him; red, orange, and green, like a traffic light.

The light switched from red, to orange, and then rapidly to green. There was an electronic buzzer, and the outer door slowly slid upwards, revealing dark palm trees swaying in the wind. Cox stepped out into the night, the visitor centre looming over him, lit up like a Christmas tree. Construction scaffolding and construction crews covered it like locusts; the sound of hammers was loud in his ears.

Looking out over the pond, and into the distance, he could just about make out the fencing being erected around the safari lodge, the glass walled pyramid structures just visible, poking above the tree line.

Cox walked around to the side of Fort Knox, and pattered up the steps onto the viewing platform, where he joined Muldoon. Although only a Ranger, Cox was pretty much Muldoon's second in command. At thirty two, six foot two, with a wiry build, his thick curls of hair which fell down over his face made him look far younger and more innocent than he actually was.

"How is it?" he said to Muldoon, who stood in half-darkness, staring down into the pit, his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

"Impressive," Muldoon grunted, "expensive. But still, not good enough."

Cox laughed, looking down into the pit as the floodlights shifted slowly towards the door of the structure, and a forklift lumbered into the empty space, and began dropping heavy bags of compost and soil onto the bare concrete floor. Parked at the side of the road twenty feet away was a large lorry, the back fully loaded with imported ferns which had been selected for tactfully covering unsightly objects.

"What's wrong with it?" he said, gesturing to the military-like installation before them.

"The structure is sound, the design is flawless. But the system..."

He was referring to Nedry.

The guy had built the shoddy system, which was full of problems, but he hadn't done half as good a job as he could have done. He'd heard something about a payment feud with Hammond had been going on for years.

"It needs some alarms, a separate independent tracking system, and backup generators, _something else_. Something more," Muldoon muttered. "We need to know where they are at all times."

"I'm sure that can be arranged, Robert," Cox said, putting his left hand into his pocket, scratching his chin like Muldoon with the other, frowning. "But it'd take a lot longer. It'd delay moving the Raptors in here."

Muldoon nodded. "Yes. But it's worth the wait."


	10. Chapter 9: GAP

**CHAPTER 9 – GAP**

GAP; Genetics Advancement Program.

That's what it stood for; impressive title, I know. Once Harding and the staff at the park reported problems with the animal's behaviour in the park setting, we had to go back to the drawing board, looking at where we'd filled in the gaps in their genetic code with RANA DNA.

It was a pain in the ass from the very beginning, and management bore down on us like vampires, screaming for them to get it right. Millions of dollars were pouring into the research for these animals; they wanted it done right, and quickly.

But after a while I began to see the upside to it. We could continue to manipulate their code, releasing the new code in each generation to see the new effects. We introduced everything we could think of to make production more efficient and successful; growth accelerations, a wide array of small changes which made each species unique and patentable; like a brand name for the company.

One of the most notable changes was the faulty enzyme for producing the amino acid lysine. It was a backup procedure designed to keep all the animals in the park under our absolute control; if they weren't fed lysine within a few days they'd simply fall unconscious, slip into a coma and expire. There was nothing violent or unethical; they were by definition our property, and they would slip away seamlessly.

But we still decided to keep it low profile. Nobody, except my personal team and the high ranking staff members, along with the administration board knew about the version numbers at all. And the GAP program was restricted to just me, my personal genetics team of six people, and Mr. Hammond.

GAP was our ultimate backup. It was our insurance policy for everything which we had done. After years of manipulating the code, we found that massive amounts of the genetic coding in the animals were identical. And therefore we only had to concentrate on the differences in the code for each species. GAP was the saved encrypted information for each species, and all the changes which we had made to improve their behaviour.

This was kept on the highest level of security on the park system, at Hammond's private mansion, and in a vault at the InGen headquarters in New York.

By 1992, we had reached version three for several species. And I was considering version four. I and Kyle Sanders used to meet often to discuss the problems at hand to consider whether we should move onto the next version.

It was one of the only decision making powers we had.

_Henry Wu, 1995_

**Henry Wu**

**November 19****th****, 1992**

_**Cantina, Visitor Centre, Isla Nublar**_

Wu rubbed his eyes as he stared down at the thick manila envelope which lay on the table in front of him in the dim light. He peered at the half eaten carrot cake which lay next to it, and licked his lips. He cut another slice, and ate some more as he opened the file, and read the title.

_JURASSIC PARK – VERSION 4.0 PROPOSITION_

_CANDIDATES: TYRANNOSAURUS, VELOCIRAPTOR, HADROSAURUS, TRICERATOPS, STEGOSAURUS._

_PRIMARY CAUSE: BEHAVIOURAL DEFECTS, AGGRESSION, SKIN CONDITIONS, BOWEL DYSFUNCTION._

He didn't bother reading any more than the summary; he was too tired. He had been working more than eighteen hours straight in the laboratory. They had endured a spill of their bio chemicals in the genetics lab today, and had had to get a full decontamination unit in to clear the place out. It was a nightmare, and would put them back several weeks. The chemicals were very dangerous; some were poisons, which could kill any known organisms within a second.

So now, stuck with nothing else to do for the next few days while the lab equipment was disposed of and replaced, he sat at in the emptying, dimly lit Cantina down the hall from the control room, opposite Kyle Sanders.

"Pure and simple this time," Sanders was saying, taking a gulp of cold coffee, looking over his shoulder.

Behind them, a few tables away, Arnold, Harding and Anderson were eating together. Smoke drifted upwards from Arnold's cigarette. But they weren't listening; they were laughing and talking about the weekend.

"What do you mean?" Wu said, wiping crumbs off his day-old lab coat.

"Do you actually think it's necessary to move on to another version of animal; I mean, we've solved all of the major problems that we faced, administration is happy about patenting issues, and even Muldoon's satisfied with the lysine contingency. Do we really need to bother with all of this stuff? I mean, it's not like we don't have work to do around here."

Wu paused for a moment, and gestured for a second to think as he chewed.

The Tyrannosaurs had gum infections all the time – even though they were still not sure on that one, as they didn't know how their food supply of conventional animals would affect with physiology. The Stegosaurs came down sick with some bowel infection every six weeks or so, with diarrhoea, unconsciousness, laboured breathing and a whole host of other problems. The Hadrosaurs were still screwed; Sanders had seen it himself; slamming against the fences and everything.

But the main reason he wanted to change the code was because of the Raptors. The admin board didn't have to be on this island, and they didn't understand the dangers that they posed. They were just too aggressive; it was obvious that they enjoyed murder. And they were fast, far too fast.

"Yes," he said, "we need to move onto version four."


	11. Chapter 10: The Insetto Problem

**CHAPTER 10: THE INSETTO PROBLEM**

I'd never had so many headaches in such short a time in my life. Nedry's system was a mess; patched up all over, pieces missing, a list of malfunctions a mile long. There was no getting around the fact that the fat guy had screwed up. The more we pushed him to get it fixed, the more money he demanded from Hammond. In the end nothing ended up getting done, they were stuck in stalemate for months at a time, struggling over the fact that debugging the system hadn't been in the contract when he signed up.

But everybody ended up making the same argument against him; he had been contracted to make a very large control system, the prospect of which had been challenging to anybody from the start. He had given us half of one.

So it fell to me to make the repair work, fix all of the most pressing issues whilst they berated Nedry. All the while he sat there on his fat ass, chewing on candy bars and downing cans of cola, typing away and not really accomplishing anything very fast.

And that was what I did, for over a year and a half. Who else was going to do it?

Arnold did his best to help me along, but there wasn't much time aside for him; he was busy actually running the place, co-ordinating the teams and what-not.

At first it wasn't so bad; a problem arose every few weeks, and I'd do what I could to sort it out. Sometimes the problems solved themselves; just one offs. Others took a few days of coding to sort out. But it was manageable.

But then, after a while, the problems just kept on coming, faster and faster. The parks system had been constructed in a kind of hierarchy, it was necessary, but the way that it had to be done. But that meant that three systems could be based around another; the it failed all of them would go down. The most obvious example was of course the electricity supply. The dinosaurs locked up were powerful enough to tear the metal of the fence wiring to pieces in a few seconds, so they had to remain electrified with ten thousand volts at all times. Surprising that we managed it for so long, seeing as the power always went out in the visitor centre, which caused a load of weird crap every time it happened.

By the time the rest of the staff were beginning to think that they were getting finished; the animals in place and acclimatised, security systems up, construction now more utility than anything, it was just getting worse for me.

I was swamped.

_Joel Anderson, 1997_

**Joel Anderson**

**May 5****th****, 1993**

_**Control Room, Visitor Centre, Isla Nublar**_

"I can't take this!" Joel shouted, throwing the stack of papers in front of him into the air, and wheeled around to face Nedry, who sat eating loudly.

Nedry seemed unperturbed by his sudden outburst, and simply swivelled around in his chair to face him, revealing his chubby, chocolate covered face.

John Arnold looked from Joel to Nedry, but didn't say anything; just took a long drag from his cigarette, the crumbling clip glowing for a moment.

"What's wrong?" said Nedry brightly, the wrapper of his chocolate bar crinkling as he put it to his mouth.

"The problem is, this system has so many holes in it that it's worse than Swiss cheese!"

Arnold coughed out a laugh through his mouthful of smoke, and simply watched the exchange, his face immaculately lit by the glow of his monitor.

"It's not really that bad; everything works. And I'm starting on the bug list next Wednesday. Don't look so worried."

Nedry turned away, and began typing again. Straining in his seat, and peering over Nedry's shoulder from across the room, he could see Nedry's disgustingly disorganised desk. The images of mathematicians were in stark contrast to the empty cans of jolt cola, the chocolate wrappers, and even his VHS copy of the movie Jaws. On the monitor he could see an attractive woman on a zebra-striped patterned bed.

He stood up, and tore across the room, brandishing a crumpled piece of paper in his hand. He gripped the back of Nedry's seat, and swung him around, waving the paper in his face.

"Look at this. This, it's just a summary sheet. But I've had to print it in text so small that I need a magnifying glass just to get it all on one page. Let's see here," he looked at the first few lines of text, and began to read them out.

"02/11/91; we had reports that the automated feeding system in the Herbivore paddock A was dispensing additional lysine to all animals in the paddock every Wednesday, and would not respond to override commands. When we tried to pull out the lysine capsules from the feeding dispenser and decided to administer them by hand, alarms went off in the maintenance shed and we couldn't turn them off. It's continued every fortnight since then. That was two years ago!"

Nedry looked distantly surprised by this, but merely smiled. "It's probably just a glitch or a missing character, I'll sort it—"

Anderson continued. "14/06/92; Dilophosaurus paddock suffered a major disruption of its electrical supply. All of the capacitors overloaded, and we had to have all of the animals sedated for two days while their fences were repaired. We've had to keep checking the capacitor stations all over the island regularly ever since them."

Nedry started to babble, but Anderson cut him off.

"Whenever we lose power in the main control facility all of the door locks fail, invariably. The security systems – most notably the cameras – all turn themselves off. Do you want me to go on?"

Nedry sat motionless for a moment, and eyed Anderson, looking him up and down. He dropped his chocolate bar onto the desk, and pushed it away, as if he had suddenly lost his appetite. _As if._

"What do you want from me, man?" he said, sucking his index finger absently.

"Your help would be nice," Arnold said, resuming typing. "I can take care of usual maintenance around here, and I know you've got your own people in Cambridge who can take care of the rest of the coding for you."

"Why should I debug this system?"

"It's your system!"

"I am not paid to fix it; only to design it."

Anderson sighed, and turned away from Nedry. "Moral reasons, maybe?"

Nedry's chair squeaked as he turned around. "What moral reasons?"

"You know how dangerous it is for everybody on this island if those fences go down at any time. The entire system needs to be flawless. There are going to be tourists all over this place; whole families, with kids."

Nedry simply sat, and said nothing.

Anderson sighed slowly, and stood for a moment, putting his hands over the back of his head. He strolled over to his seat, and sat down. He collected his sheets slowly, cursing.

Then Nedry's voice floated across the room towards him quietly; "I'll think about it."


	12. Chapter 11: Exodus

**CHAPTER 11 – EXODUS**

Everything always seems so simple and obvious in hindsight. It troubles you how you couldn't have sensed the events that were about to unfold, but of course, corruption of memories is something to happens to everybody. How was I to know that it would be my last time on the island when I left for the weekend?

In the present tense, you're always oblivious to everything going on around you.

_Kyle Sanders, 1993_

**Kyle Sanders**

**June 13****th****, 1993**

_**Control Room, Visitor Centre, Isla Nublar**_

"GAP reports need to be signed by you as Chief Geneticist," said Sanders idly as he dropped the stack of papers onto the desk in front of Wu.

Wu looked at them with distain, sat in the middle of an area which looked to Sanders like a city, made entirely out of stacks of documents. Wu grabbed them quickly, opened them up, scribbled his signature wherever he saw a line – Sanders made to stop him as Wu scribbled over a dividing line on the back page, but thought better of it – and handed it back.

"Did you see them in the lab?" Wu said quietly, rubbing his forehand with one hand.

Sanders shook his head, putting the stack of papers under his arm, frowning. "No, who?"

"The inspection team from the mainland," Wu said. "They're all scientists and lawyers, because of that kid who fell into the Raptor cage."

"Oh," Sanders said, looking around the control room. "Is that why you're in here?"

"Hammond says he doesn't want all the paperwork cluttering up the lab. To be honest I need to get back to Sorna; we've got some kind of outbreak of virus there, killing all the newborns."

"Is it DX again?" Sanders said, lowering his voice.

Wu made a slight gesture with his hand, a downwards wave; be quiet. "We're not sure yet, but maybe," he murmured.

Sanders shook his head.

"Don't worry about it," Wu said, "we'll take care of it on Monday."

Wu stood up, and looked over at the rest of the control room. "Bye, John," he said, waving to Arnold, who sat in the corner, smoking of course. Arnold turned in his chair, and gave a brief wave. "Safe journey you two; if we lose you we're screwed."

"What do you mean?" Wu said.

Arnold pointed to his monitor, which showed a satellite image of Isla Nublar and the surrounding area of one hundred miles. Sixty miles to the south was a large, swirling white blob. "We're tracking a storm, which on its current heading will be over our heads in a few hours."

"Will it cause a problem for the boat?"

Arnold shrugged, taking a drag of smoke. "Not if you hurry." He turned away, laughing to himself.

Sanders shrugged. "Hey, Anderson," he called to Joel, who was scribbling on a piece of paper in the recesses of the room, "are you coming or not?"

Joel made an erratic movement with his free hand, and then stood up with a start, and strode over to Nedry, who had been called in to debug the systems over the weekend, again.

"This is a list of everything we've found in the last two months," he said, waving it in front of Nedry's face.

"Oh, sure, thanks," said Nedry, who didn't glance at the note. He was busy typing.

Sanders watched as Anderson glared at Nedry, and stuck the note to the top corner of Nedry's monitor, and turned away. "See you, John," he called as the three of them turned and left the control room.

Wu, Anderson and Sanders strolled down the corridor together; they were leaving for the weekend, as the island ran on a skeleton crew. Sanders was going to see his wife and daughter for the first time in over two weeks; he had been busy with Wu getting the lab ready and the right eggs over form Sorna so that the inspection team might be able to watch one of the animals hatch.

Wu told him that they had been in luck; a Raptor had hatched just as the team had entered the hatchery.

Perfect, thought Sanders, that's was just what they needed in the park; more man-eaters.

As they passed from the bright lights into the cinematically decorated rotunda, they passed Muldoon, who ran up the stairs towards the control room.

"Where have you been?" Wu said, pausing at the stop of the spiral staircase.

"Harding needed Bourika tranquilised before he left."

He was referring to one of the Triceratops, who was well known by all of the staff for causing a lot of headaches.

"What's your hurry then?" Sanders said, grinning as he pattered down the stairs down towards the first floor.

"That storm," Muldoon growled, "perfect timing; right in the middle of an inspection."

"Ah, we've gone through loads of storms," Anderson said, "Nedry's systems a mess, but it can take a lot."

"Doesn't comfort me much," Muldoon muttered, and hurried up past them towards the control room. "See you," he called over his shoulder.

They reached the ground floor a few moments later, the two behemoth skeletons looming over them, suspending from their thick cabling. Workmen were appearing from all over the place, through every door in the facility, moving towards the two large wooden doors of the visitor centre. Most of them were dressed in blue overall uniforms or lab coats; in fact the three of them were the only ones dressed casually.

They passed out of the centre and into the sunlight, passing from air conditioned comfort into the thick, humid heat. The water feature flowed peacefully downwards in the silence on either side of them and Sanders watched Dragonflies zoom over the surface of the pond which lay just behind the road which ran in front of the block of steps.

Parked up down the road was a long collection of white shuttle-like vehicles. They looked like elongated golf carts, which were connected to each other like cars on a train. It was slowly filling up with staff members. With a rumble its engine sputtered to life, and the driver looked at them through his windshield, waiting.

They hurried forwards, Sander's pack bouncing on his back as they reached the first car and piled in. Sanders saw Noah Cox sitting in the seat in front of him, and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around and smiled.

"Hey man," he said. "You almost missed us."

"Yeah, well, the inspection team was holding us up," called Wu from behind through a mouthful of apple.

"Ah, them," said Cox, nodding, "I saw them earlier up by Fort Knox. They looked pretty disgusted at feeding time."

"Well at least they're competent," said Sanders, as a Jeep Wrangler came careening around the corner further up the road. It roared up to them, and through the windshield Sanders could see Harding, waving to them, with a blond woman sitting in the passenger seat next to him. The Wrangler swerved to the side, and soared into the open garage which lay underneath the visitor centre. There was the sound of a dying engine in the sudden silence as everybody stared. A moment later Jerry emerged again with the woman, and he led her to the bottom of the steps of the visitor centre.

There was a crackle as the loudspeakers lining the roof above the doors activated, and Arnold's voice boomed out, crackly and muffled by the cigarette in his mouth. "Ladies and gentlemen, last shuttle to the dock leaves in approximately five minutes. Drop what you are doing and leave now."

"Dr. Sattler, it's been a pleasure," they heard Harding said as the last few staff members came trotting down the steps of the building, heading for the shuttle.

"If you follow the staircase up to the first floor and walk straight ahead, you'll find the control room," he said over his shoulder as he hurried towards the shuttle.

"Thanks," the blonde woman said brightly, heading up the stairs into the visitor centre. "Bye now," she called, waving to the shuttle. Sandler gave a brief wave, as did Harding as she disappeared inside.

The driver called to them from up front. "That everybody?" he shouted through a steel-gray moustache.

There was a brief pause, murmuring, and then a few mumbles of confirmation. "If we've forgotten anybody, better say it now," the driver said as he started the engine, and they began rattling over the tarmac of the road, heading towards the jungle, "because I'd hate to get caught in this storm."

The sound of the engine grew, and they picked up speed, leaving the visitor centre behind as they rounded a corner in the road. Sandler sat back in his seat, and looked towards the storm clouds building to the south-west, foreboding in the sky.


	13. Lost Memoirs: Volume 2, Coming Soon

**JURASSIC PARK – LOST MEMOIRS – VOLUME II**

The key events leading up the InGen incident of 1993 are long gone. Now follow the accounts and memories of those present during the last days of InGen, the rise of BioSyn and the Las Cinco Muertes Island chain; see how the secret was covered up, how the island was preserved, and how the public was ultimately exposed to the greatest secret of the century.

Coming soon, Summer 2009.


End file.
